AtLast_[07]

At last !

McGuiness - In his own words!

Thanks to Six-County-North Underground Press for permission to reprint these poems

There is no permission granted to further reprint or in any way distribute or retell these poems.

Any and all prior copyrights apply.

Note from the editor: These poems came to me through a very strange mechanism. I am not Irish. I was merely one of several persons accompanying a common lady friend to a 'Gaelic cultural evening of entertainment'. Several of the Irish men seemed to be right out of central casting for a Jimmy Cagney movie. We had a good time. The program included singing, piping, and brief one act plays. I enjoyed those, especially the manner in which the repertory players transformed themselves for each piece. There was, of course, plenty of Irish clogging, which they call step dancing. The best of the evening was last, not advertised, unanticipated by the audience, and unlisted in the playbill - poems of G.F.E. McGuiness, recited by a master Irish seanachie. It was a Mister Burns, I believe. Presented in their native Gaelige, they were spellbinding, even though I didn't understand a single syllable. It just didn't matter. The brooding rumble of this ancient tongue was mystical. The previously vocal and upbeat audience became totally absorbed. Curiously, as it went on, there were tears on many cheeks, my first clue that there were actually many people there who spoke this language. At the end, the exodus was - silent. Just silent. Reflective dreamy faces filed out without conversation. What happened here? Off the main lobby, in a vestibule, three of our party chatted with old friends who had also attended the show. I was pretty much out of these conversations and so asked a passing usher if, perhaps, there were available a translation of the McGuiness poetry. "No!" The tone of the response conveyed, "What? Are you stupid?" I was sure he had misunderstood the simple question that I had asked. I hesitated a moment and was about to ask it again, but more clearly. But then, a nearby gentleman with dark glasses, out of place in this dim lighting, a woolen cap pulled low to one side, and a well weathered Donegal jacket, turned curiously up at the neck, began to paraphrase the poetical works as our portico became increasingly thick with listeners. Wow! This was another event in itself! Why hadn't I heard of this poetry before? The answer was simple. It existed only in Gaelige. "Gaelic?", I asked and was quickly trounced with the correct term 'Gaelige' - Gaelic being an English, therefore unacceptable in this crowd, word for Gaelige. My response was something like, "Oh. Gee. Is he still alive?". A few gagged on laughter and indicated affirmatively. I shrugged, "You know, he really ought to translate his works into English." A brutal, deep, and incisive, "Devil's tongue!", from behind, cut the painful silence that followed my question. It was eerie. I could feel my foot in my mouth. But now, trying to

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extract it, only got it in deeper, "But does the poet want to communicate or not? I mean, it's like taking coals to Newcastle.", another badly selected reference followed by a group groan. Now babbling, "OK OK. Wait. I mean, OK, if he wants to be EFFECTIVE, I mean, you know, like, change minds rather than cement old relationships, then new ears have to hear it. Yes? Right? Like, they sure as hell ain't gonna be learning Gaelige! No? Why sell ice to Eskimos?". That was better than Newcastle, but still pretty shabby. Deadly silence followed. "Anyway,", I muttered, trying to extract myself, "If he's pissed at the English, he could translate it into American. You know? English is only one of a whole bunch of dialects. Right?". I could see that the mysterious fellow was thrown by this argument and visibly disturbed. My lady friend was giving me serious kicks in the ankle, so I apologized to him for my inappropriate remarks, but he waved me off and left after a brief conversation, in Irish, with one of the men in our party. I caught my name being tossed, but didn't pursue it. Eight months later, I received a package of poems with notations, philosophic statements, and historical fragments, but with NO INSTRUCTIONS ! Clearly they were from Gavin McGuiness via an intermediary. McGuiness in 'American' IN HIS OWN WORDS! Now what? Obviously I had to learn more about this man, whom I had once only heard of in the news as a terrorist. G. F. E. McGuiness is the pen name of Gavin McGuiness. When spoken by the right people, the G.F.E. part sounds like 'Gaffy'. The "F.E." portion of his name is derived, somehow, from an utterly obscure and unpronounceable Gaelige freedom war cry. My sources have given up trying to explain it to me. It defies spelling. My first detailed information about his past came to me through correspondence with Maeve McLonighan. Ms. McLonighan is a most respected Irish historian who investigated the mound mystery rather thoroughly and whose work on Tara is now a classic. She was, as a child, a close and intimate friend of a cousin of Gavin McGuiness and grew up in the very place where his travail began - near Bogside, Derry. Her quest into academic historical forensics began as a personal curiosity to sort out the truth of the pro and anti McGuiness tales which abounded in her county. Satisfying that curiosity took a level of scientific skill and logical prowess that would rival Sherlock Holmes. Gavin McGuiness was and is a wanted man. His alleged 'crimes' stem from his jail break even though he was not jailed for a valid reason. His jailing is related to three things. He was a good writer of a politically unpopular topic, his fiancee was taboo, and his father was his father. Officially, he was 'held for questioning' relating to his 'IRA support'. That turns out to be merely his vocal and editorial opposition to the abuses of power the local police

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perpetrated on selected people of Ulster. The 'kidnapping' of McGuiness by the police, as it is usually called by his supporters, was precipitated when he came to the aid of his fiancee. But there was more to it than that, a much deeper prejudice against this poet and his fiancee. She was a way to get at him and he was a way to get at his father. Gavin's father, of similar name, was a Republican freedom fighter whose attacks on the 'Black & Tan bastards' were brutally effective, earning a name that translates "Death Ghost". Such English military quasi-police thugs as the Black and Tans, and worse, the Auxies, were brought to Ireland to suppress support for the republic. They terrified the people with raids into the villages, random violence, and outright looting. Many a hapless farmer was killed for merely being in his field when they passed, like buffalo shot from trains in the old American west. Any man who complained was branded an 'IRA conspirator'. Interestingly, these thugs, many fresh out of English jails, seldom encountered the real IRA. The exceptions were when they were attacked in reprisal for their crimes, by the IRA flying column. The Black & Tans went after easy prey. Victory over Irish 'criminals' was then heralded in English newspapers. A very effective propaganda ploy was to twist every IRA reprisal - for a Black and Tan or Auxie looting spree - into a Catholic attack on Protestants. The fact that some of the victims of IRA reprisals were royalist Catholics and that some of the IRA were Protestant Republicans, was routinely censured from the news. The actual nature of the reprisals was always simply Catholics were killing Protestants. Period. A 'two houses for a house' IRA policy followed in which for every Irish farm burned or invaded, two English or wealthy supporter houses would be destroyed. That worked rather well. The howling in the House of Lords was quite loud and sustained. The elder McGuinness died in his later years of complications of a wound received in one such reprisal. Young Gavin grew up on the stories of the injustices. However, rejecting violence, he never took up the quest beyond his writing. At this he excelled. Love for his father reflected in the emotional accuracy of the retellings of the old stories. Rich with such material, these accounts really angered the totally politicized police. Gavin's stories were compelling, memorized easily, and were, therefore, retold endlessly. The factual details were easily confirmed. In short, they were EFFECTIVE. Gavin's fiancee was beaten up by the police for merely entering a bake shop which 'was under surveillance as an IRA meeting place'. It wasn't. They knew who she was and were angry at her being a Protestant in "league with an IRA mouthpiece". When she protested of her treatment to officials, they jailed her, without any official charge, for "questioning". Clearly her incarceration was a cowardly jab at McGuinness Sr. and, more importantly, a warning to other Protestant girls to not consort with the Catholics. Gavin, seeking her release, was likewise held for questioning. No charges were ever stated for either of them. Later, this 'lapse of procedural detail' was to actually aid his invisibility as typical arrest records were never forwarded from the place of confinement to the county headquarters.

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For four years Gavin and his fiancee were kept in separate unlit stone walled dungeon cells with wooden doors bearing slit windows and food slots. Some questioning! Rare visitors could only talk through the doors. The two youngsters communicated in whispers under these doors across the hallway at night - in Gaelige. Gavin, in the oral tradition of the Irish story teller, recited his poetry through an outside wall breach to any who would press their ears to the wall to listen. In this manner, his unwritten poems found their way to the underground press. It wasn't the IRA but rather an independent group called 'Brithem' who busted Gavin and his fiancee out of this dungeon called a 'holding house'. All the jailers present were slain. "Hacked to pieces" is how all the accounts describe it. The building and its documents were burned. Nobody was left alive who was unfriendly and who knew what McGuiness looked like. A false photo, supposedly of Gavin McGuiness, was later circulated by Brithem on posters seeking the outlaw. That image was really a long dead IRA man, a fact discovered only two years ago. Even now, McGuiness's best protection is his ghost like quality. He is not known on sight to any but a few. Gavin McGuiness is still wanted for 'questioning' as no records survived to show that he had ever been arrested. One such document put forward was quickly shown to be forged, to the embarrassment of the English officials. None of the acts of terrorism, attributed to McGuiness, have ever been proven to be by his hand. However, the sixty, or so, persons who were connected with that facility over the four years of 'the kidnapping' have been individually felled by violent 'acts of God' and justice. Brithem is Gaelige for justice, specifically the Bretanic codes. McGuiness is quoted, as the story goes, as saying to one of the perpetrators, just before the axe fell, "Have them submit their questions in writing next time." McGuiness's fiancee acquired tuberculosis while in jail and denied even supportive care died, severely wasted, in his arms shortly after the break out. The stories recount that it was she trying to comfort him as she was languishing in his arms. His last words to her were, "Katherine, my Caitlin, don't go." Ms. McLonighan points out that Gavin's sweetheart was named Katherine ("kay - TAH - drdeen"). McGuiness, interestingly, evokes her memory by the ancient Galige root name, his name of fondness for her, Caitlin. This is significant. Caitlin is a name of great Irish literary symbolism. Poetic readings tend to swap these two names interchangeably regardless of how written. Gavin's young 'Caitlin' cannot be distinguished from 'Caitlin ni Houlihan', a linguistic embodyment of Ireland as a female figure, additionally made famous by Yeats. When Gavin refers to Caitlin he means this girl of his tormented dreams and he means Ireland. There isn't a strong distinction . Therein is part of the magic. His love, his country, interchangeably murdered. A second biographical source, Brian Kelly, curator of the Irish Literary Historical League, has also allowed a brief synopsis of part of his own research, which is interestingly taken almost totally from English security sources. Kelly, employed by English intelligence before his current calling, has an account which isn't far off that of Ms. McLonighan. He brings out some interesting correlations and speculations.

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Gaffy's hatred of England is beyond measure. He totally abandoned English speech during his incarceration shortly after 1963 when he was nearly 17 years old. Caitlin was about a half year older. This jail break was almost a prelude, by four years, to a regional psychological implosion that, paralleled more broadly, eventuated in the Bogside riots in Derry in 1969. McGuiness was not alone. He was just the first and the best writer, able to retell history with passion. Generalized oppressive events, not long after his escape and Caitlin's death, escalated to the point of wholesale mass killings of Catholics and house burnings by heavily armed Protestant Ulster mobs incensed at pressures for political parity. English troops were called in, not to protect the Protestant interests, but due to extremely bad world opinion and American business financial pressures resulting from news reels of the massacres perpetrated in Ulster under the banner of Royalism which they called Loyalism. Local Derry and Ulster officials were very much into personal empire building and did indeed exploit the local populace. It is not merely accidental that the police did not create official documents for their many activities, as such a paper trail might later prove ruinous. This was the rule, not the exception. The deviant nature of these Northern Irish personages cannot be divorced from official English policy. Indeed, the long-standing "get tough" policies of the English were terribly off the mark. It was rather commonplace for English criminals with histories and convictions for mindless brutal behaviors to be "freed for rehabilitation". This was a nice way of saying that they would be enlisted along with the "Black and Tans" and sent to Ireland to "dull the green". It was exactly such a later day long ingrained group mentality, which the young McGuiness encountered. It was the incarnation of his father's words of warning. The Catholic - Protestant animosity, created by the British, was a drum played for all it's worth. Since the invasion of Ireland and brutal confiscation of land by William of Orange, there has been little deviation in its substance in the North. William wished that the local Irish populace would just die off, including the children. He said so. "Nits become lice.” It was policy. Laws were created to not just suppress the native Irish, but to keep them down "in perpetuity", identified by their religion which was systematically linked to landlessness. No land, no political voice, no representation or forum of grievance of any kind, forever. The English poet, Spencer (hence the term Spencerian Darwinism) mused about a 'final Irish solution', an elimination of Irish altogether from the isle. Driven from their farms, natives were forced to grow about the only thing that would grow on salty marshland - not potatoes , but - a certain kind of a potato. The blight was of this one breed of plant. The original farms were still productive and making great profits as produce was nearly all being shipped to England. The official dictum, voted in parliament, was that to assist the Irish starving in the famine was against the principles of 'Lassis Faire', an economic dictum hurried into practice. It isn't about religion, McGuiness aptly points out, as Catholics and Protestants in the larger southern Republic of Ireland get along fine under laws which do not discriminate.

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It is about privilege and those who seek to have and perpetuate it through perverted contrivances of law. There was only one dissenting voice in parliament decrying this lassis faire policy of systematic 'genocide'. He lost his seat for it. This was broadly supported governmental policy of the same type and on the same scale as that inflicted on the Jews by Hitler. It is uncomfortable. We gloss it over. But the generations of McGuinnesses who survived it have passed it on to be kept alive. Gavin McGuiness is the voice of those generations of outrage. His self imposed literary isolation lifted, in a new language - 'American' - a poetic Irish Rosetta stone is unearthed.

With pride, deepest humility, and a bit of fear, I give you

AT LAST !

M C GUINESS

IN HIS OWN WORDS !

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>> Adrift << In affection Rejection As arms reach out to me.

Of sentiment, Resentment. Still, arms reach out to me. Devotion, love, Old fervent graces, Each declining memory Traces hands held out in air, Without a grip or grasp Of my despair. Simple folk reached out to me With gestures of accord. But, I could not esteem a hand Held naked of its sword. Charming words Disarming Herds of tattle listening prattle heads To their unembattled cattle's end. Arms embracing alms Have preached

As arms have reached And breached before, Credence spent While I was trusting, then.

In alignment, Confinement. At arms, Reach out to me!

>> Apollogia <<

From these arms She fled of life's bouquet to floral wreath, As Daphne, wood. Apollo wed Adorned of laurel grief Transubstantiate of good, Capriceof gods upon this lowly race, Tho game, misunderstood.

My unrelenting grasp, Of leaves supplanting tresses Lofts too late those lovely stems, Hollow of caresses. Flesh not spawn of sin of Zeus Nor tainted breath of Boreas, Man in masteries useless Immortal currents ceaseless

Punctured heart, Gold arrow claimed, Trimmed in dulled, yet comely, branches Leadened missile maimed. Her warmth displaced of love's embrace, Attachment in eternity, I, Frigid, Oaken, Pine of her, Whose mistletoe Once garnished me.

>> Arabesque <<

Arabesque: A dancer poised Unbalanced In an ornamental way,

Momentary glimpse of form In a flowing stream of many Not a one of which Could ever be sustained. They pass as passing drops of rain. Statuesque: Ornamental portraits, friezes, Raised from solid brickwork Chiseled in my mind. This is not the agile dancer dancing But an architect of sham Advancing dikes Against the flow of time. Unvented lakes distend Whose only ebb Will spring from failing levee cracks

As tears of life In arabesque And pirouette Come dancing back.

Picturesque: Pyramids, ascend Through surging swirling clouds of dust, On parched unwatered land

Which, before us,

Fissured, Receeds in time, Pulling back To where and when Enigmatic minds

Inclined to touch us From there and then Raised uncompromising hands To rise in stone Immortal Above these errant sands. In their quest Was nothing arabesque.

Silhouette: It is inhuman To forget, And human to regret such loss of light. In that dark As stark rememberence Of my passing son Eclipsing shade, In shadows, Dims from whence our presience comes. Stilled, My mind reminding, Swells of echoes of his voice. I hear him ever From his peak Upon a pyramid above the clouds. I am transfixed In listening In An arabesque of shrouds.

>> A Prayer <<

God, on my knees, for her,

I can but plead, for her.

You know I can't save her.

I can't save her, alone.

If empty tomorrows

Are fields I must harrow,

Glean us with pity, Lord

Gather us Home.

>> Against You <<

Monster loosed, our land devoured, Venting fire, conceit empowered,

Borne of bloody lips A natal brat's aflame,

Whipped in fatal winds of servile fawning, Fanning holocaust of mutant's spawning.

Yet, Another vital child of fire seethes From newly vented lungs. It breathes The stench of deadened ground

Choked of deadened leaves, Tinder spawned of evil deeds.

Therein is our hope, I pray, A seer of breadth of fire our way Scoffing vile dragon mother's flesh Enmeshed in kindling Of our very essence dwindling.

You! Who feigning peace yet would enslave, Instilled my thoughts and dreams with rage. Muse, entrapped, in Zeus's hammer, Lost, alone, in screams at night,

Staggered by this gavel's weight, Wakened late but fit for fight Metal bent, I crush the gate.

My word is my promise. I promised words

Not thoughtlessly given Nor comfortably heard. They are the your child that will turn against you To censure the plunder unmeant you.

Candor revealed as artful gamble Dims the glow of sham, And tools the nay'ers of the soothe. Say'ers of the truth.

A thunder of shocking enlightening as sent through This infant will chancre the temper Hell lent you.

Your child, My charge, Will transform against you!

Don't point your poisoned talon at me. How was it we came so far and so badly? Can we exist enslaved and go gladly About our way As chattel of a presence, unconcerned?

Is perdition something we earned? Is my venting vented madly? Is my sadness related too sadly?

No.

Not now! I vow A vow To turn this child about at you,

Sustaining till she has dispatched you. Weapons drawn of honor and song Will sunder the pride that unbent you. I'll sharpen her tongue with which She will rent you And suck the exhalings that vent you.

No. No regrets, No second guessings,

No daunting expectation of blessings From the enfeebled bought and sold For promises of tomorrows

Paid in turn with greater debts Of unimaginable new horrors.

No.

I'll turn your daughter to hurt you, You cowardly killer of virtue. Embers, Inflections, Cons descending in Ire', Burn through the ayes, igniting the pyres Irreverently fanned in fevered desire For rosters with shamrocks impressed, And parleys on crimes unaddressed. So Hold to your guns

To your drums To your vests To your oaths

To your rules To your writs To your tests. To your chambers of scream quenching walls To your hangings In dungeons To your shackles And balls.

Your chains are about to unwire. Your spell is about to expire. It brings me due joy to incense you, As I insight your child against you!

>> Busts <<

Statues Cold, uncaring, Frozen, Poised of frigid bent,

Statutes of Kilkenny, As lost in dust as any sent.

>> Canyon <<

Canyon of stone Valley of gnomes Cut of a flow that still cuts today Shadowy walled Expansion recalls We the debris that you washed away.

>> Bitter Lessons <<

He sought my help. I did not know The depth to which his need could go.

Could my gaze pierce solid pride Discerning pain he'd not confide Perhaps his child would not have died.

Perhaps. Perhaps - or not -

Bitterness, unjustly borne, Might, yet, go proudly worn.

No matter what my ache would have In his cavil there is no salve.

In sight No comprehension gains Free from soulless vision's stain. Bitter lessons. Bitter lessons Best unlearned, As in them is our essence burned.

>> Black Shore (Cladach Dubh)

In autumn evenings' ebb of light Distant beaches wash from sight Draining seas of land toward night As silhouetted masts hail a fading sky. While eyes attempt a far off shore Dimmed until they see no more, Darkness grounds to echoed sounds. But these, too, fail as just a play Of water lapping round the bay. Breeze felt senses lift in mist Which gently tossing Throws the hair

Cooled on lips to subtle kisses Touched of lulling chilling air. Vision Fixed

Upon the black, Is she out there Looking back? Of such fantasy, No cure.

Unsettled hearts must so endure. And so enduring glimpse a ray Of light escaped from far away.

Does it know my secret sorrow? Will it fade Before the morrow? Seldom is my fancy dulled Before the evening shade is pulled. Adrift on seas of loneliness Sad hearts seek bearings less than this.

Whoever's fire, I pray them peace Before my wakeful grip's released. To bait like favor in return, Through my repose a candle burns, A humble frail and twinkling prod That someone pray

my soul

to God.

>> Breath <<

Ghosts of seething rage unspent Reveal in winter's nip, Vented years of unseen tears Swallowed side by side with pride Exhumed from frozen grip As passions flare Across the lip.

Should inner weeping ever cease Could I, yet, thrive in inner peace? Or burn, instead of hell's increase?

Postured juxt of wet and fire Love seethe, steaming Kindled ire, Arrangement ripped in honor's name So better, wetter, to the flame.

>> Britannia <<

Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves Of rolling hills and endless fields of other people's graves.

>> Busts <<

Statues Cold, uncaring, Frozen, Poised of frigid bent,

Statutes of Kilkenny, As lost in dust as any sent.

>> Canyon <<

Canyon of stone Valley of gnomes Cut of a flow that still cuts today Shadowy walled Expansion recalls We the debris that you washed away.

>> Carry Me Down << Michael's Song 7/31/70 - 2/24/04

Carry me down father Carry me down In the valley there is peace

Carry me down mother Carry me down

Carry me down friends Carry me down

Carry my soul With floats through the air Carry my dreams Carry my cares

Carry my heart Which - Lost of living, nature unforgiving - Beats in you.

Carry me in love. Carry me down.

>> Circles <<

What is time? Just gears clicking or sand passing through impartial holes? No. Time has weight and intensity. With dread, it stalls and rushes - to our disadvantage - as it mocks and dares. It pulls and when we pull back, it drags. Time. Will she be all right? When will I know? It taunts. Eluding, it distracts. Something, somehow familiar... I was a child then? Or, was I ever? What is then? A gap? Or penned pages of tortured perception? The past. An ever growing devouring block of goneness? Somehow that, too, is so detached. Not a singular but a plural binding us all to the same grind. Do we, the collective aware, always agony of unfulfillment, denied promises due? Long over due? Time? Do we rise up over seconds? Mere minutes ? No. But hours? Hours anger and have turned history inside out. Days? Yes, days goad. Weeks? And, months? Ahh! Storm those walls bricked of denial! But years? Years! In hundreds? How long do we spin tethered to that star? Do we resolve or evolve to the going nowhere over vast distances of empty space. What is time, anyway, when promise is false and unmoving? No mere clicks. And spill your sand away into the cement it really is. Eight hundred years of barren centripitality around some heartless flame? Are we to endure - ever dangling - hope always beyond the current moment's grasp? What is our measure of this bleakness second after second, minute to minute, hour by hour, days passing days, weeks upon weeks, months and months and months - again, again, again and ever again in :

Circles of the sun Circles of the sun Raging sphere's unsettled air

Peace will never come.

Circles of the sun Circles of the sun Hurtled fire of lead as God Boils in the lung. Circles of the sun Circles of the sun Embodiment of failure, Raging bullets from my gun.

Circles of the sun Circles of the sun

Men repair to find no where Nor how Thy will be done.

Circles! Circles.

Circled sun Through that endless vacuum, Spinning

Fendless men Of senseless sinning Face this bitter mend

Revolution On wheedling, wheeling, turning psychless

Pitched precession severed, Sending us in ever rending Mindless circles of the sun.

Stars

And stars of all infinity! Through skies And skies of ages yet to be

I, look aloft,

But all I see

Are tally stones

Of promise made, tho duty shunned,

Counted,

Each,

As one

By one

By one

By one...

In never ending

Never never

Never ending

Circles of the sun.

Archangel Michael's missive Closed, Accumbent I was lifted By his sword of flame Upon my shoulder. "Gavin, you are called." But God! I disowned all that For the bad Or for the better! Writ In haste Was Martin's letter. "Gavin, you are called."

Cousin Martin's letter charged,

Nagging wounds once claimed as healed, Vicious packs of wolves at large Running through our fields. Angel feather sword in hand, Returned, in haste, to my own land. Instinct in my other axe, Cousin Martin pulled me back. "My CuChulainn! Temperament sullen, Waive that tempered blade. We despair of equal force In you, my hopes, a wooden horse!

Your bid was Homer bade. Erect, as lures, in muse's art

Equine runes for ruined hearts And, if such taps remain, Pipe your conscience to their brains. Our want requires balanced juries Not more Hectors dragged for glory. Phoenix of your pall Lift aloof above the fray, Inflame a few or burn them all In flair of your own way. Don't be doused in manly fury. Suck their poison, Spit our story." Thus, I lay this mattock down In hope of striking fertile ground. So, please don't fail me patient friend You Are the field I tend. How it was: Noxious gaseous vapors rising. Terror hounded victims crying. Children, bludgeoned, Dying. A girl of twelve who, pleading, fled Shot, at close approach, Lay dead. Six bullets in her head. "This one's for the devil Pope!" Bang !

A bullet through her ear. "Here's to Catholic hope!" Bang ! Bullet two through failing tears." "For Maria Monk! " Bang !

"You bitch and whoring skunk!" Bang ! "I baptize you to UPV!" Bang ! And Bang ! This one for me. Babies dropped of Mothers capped Trampled, kicked, Like groceries, Sacked, Then strapped of suckled life. By stone, by steel, By Godless men Such sentenced lives repealed Vicious lunacy amiss "What is poet's ink to this?" Seals for want of wax? I choked on tears, Then, swung this axe. These eyes could not suffer What these hands did not hinder. Yet, Am I that he Who I was born?

Dust of diaries

Dross of pain Tossed at murderous hosts In vein? In vanity? Which was my spade? My link? My blade? My ink?

>> Cousins << Pestered by brethren

"Gavin. Your other 'n'? Enlightened imposture

Of tragedian Heighten us Frighten us To who How

Where When? But who routs my devils As Miss Magdalene? Anhydrous mikvah Bathed long in sin Trenchant intransigent Of eloquent wrath Entrenched magniloquent Vexed philomath. Am I who I am As I as I pass? Oh God! I hope not. Muse Help me here. So when? Long lingering storms Of churning forms

In Belfast cast Fast thunder,

Thundering curses Raised at hearses Smazed the day In bleak of plunder

By all, despised, Stood by and smiled Wickedly, "Where's your sticky, hey?" Then, flailing, beat our flesh away. Rapacious royal lupis pack, Chaperon of feasts Glutted on our innocence With their slavering brother beasts. Spoilers, we, of total rout When, of force, become their meal Must also be their gout. Ague drained Through tainted spread A peace was feigned Apiece Of chains, Of dread, Of walls for over tossing Oaths on one another's heads Bulwarks of public mock solicitude And backroom guile, Dementia by the mile. And who retorts in all this toil Armed encampments on our soil Daily muzzles to our heads Snatch squads at our beds?

Guess.

So it goes. Borrowed rails of Nazi stock Our youth in train loads to the blocks Hauled as hostage to a sin H-block H-bombs on our kin.

Were patched and patched again, through prayer And children's care. Cloistered, Seasons Seasoned Turning shades

As ancient masters From their graves

Of parchment Spoke to me.

To me.

To me, alone.

"Gavin,", In whispers, At vespers,

"Ancient princes felled and gone

Caches of sashes to ashes, thrown Empty toils on sterile soils - Sum of nothing, Currents of glory, Abridged. Haughty sway, To clapping hands, Acclaim - Alleged, But rather

Sleeveless toss Of dross and dredge To salted sands, Again. Unseemly Untimely

Unknowing. Ungrowing.

Of more fertile bent Artists draw on firmament, As vaulted skies Open torrents Tempestuously Spawned of dreams in ink and alabaster. Mosaic tales in tile,

Radiant craft Of masters.

Plasters - never slighted Vintage - never blighted." "Gavin." Earthy voice, of duty, called. Intone of habit Strained of shock "Gavin! Go! Attend thy flock!"

Then, suddenly, my phantoms stalled

My flock? Who?

>> Crack << Look closely in your gloom. Infinity? Or mirrored room? Multitudes of smiles endearing If were of voice would deafen hearing. Unchanging iterating graces, Are there souls to match the faces? Ceaseless laud and gibe replete, Spare of equal body heat In bantam forms which draw away In amaranthine sway? Just one crack will clew the lie. Fog the glass Then live! Or die!

Equine runes for ruined hearts And, if such taps remain, Pipe your conscience to their brains. Our want requires balanced juries Not more Hectors dragged for glory. Phoenix of your pall Lift aloof above the fray, Inflame a few or burn them all In flair of your own way. Don't be doused in manly fury. Suck their poison, Spit our story." Thus, I lay this mattock down In hope of striking fertile ground. So, please don't fail me patient friend You Are the field I tend. How it was: Noxious gaseous vapors rising. Terror hounded victims crying. Children, bludgeoned, Dying. A girl of twelve who, pleading, fled Shot, at close approach, Lay dead. Six bullets in her head. "This one's for the devil Pope!" Bang !

A bullet through her ear. "Here's to Catholic hope!" Bang ! Bullet two through failing tears." "For Maria Monk! " Bang !

"You bitch and whoring skunk!" Bang ! "I baptize you to UPV!" Bang ! And Bang ! This one for me. Babies dropped of Mothers capped Trampled, kicked, Like groceries, Sacked, Then strapped of suckled life. By stone, by steel, By Godless men Such sentenced lives repealed Vicious lunacy amiss "What is poet's ink to this?" Seals for want of wax? I choked on tears, Then, swung this axe. These eyes could not suffer What these hands did not hinder. Yet, Am I that he Who I was born?

Dust of diaries

Dross of pain Tossed at murderous hosts In vein? In vanity? Which was my spade? My link? My blade? My ink?

Equal wind-harps of my storm. Equal shadows of my form. I jumped that wall To thrust a pen Into an eye, Quite fully in. See this!

Thrusting deep To stylus' length Ripping hearts

With all my strength. From eyes and ears To paper, set Scrolls of tiers Of parapeted men.

But what would that beget? And if begotten, gotten, let? Belial swells of mindless curses Angels float on heaven's verses. Can I sour daemon's whey And gag them at their play?

I don't know.

But, starve them of their fiendish meals

Disenchanting spells they wield? Maybe. With only feeble hope of spark

I kept on into dark It was darkness lit Of burning eyes Searing city streets, Of cries Reprised, As British troops,

By all, despised, Stood by and smiled Wickedly, "Where's your sticky, hey?" Then, flailing, beat our flesh away. Rapacious royal lupis pack, Chaperon of feasts Glutted on our innocence With their slavering brother beasts. Spoilers, we, of total rout When, of force, become their meal Must also be their gout. Ague drained Through tainted spread A peace was feigned Apiece Of chains, Of dread, Of walls for over tossing Oaths on one another's heads Bulwarks of public mock solicitude And backroom guile, Dementia by the mile. And who retorts in all this toil Armed encampments on our soil Daily muzzles to our heads Snatch squads at our beds?

Guess.

So it goes. Borrowed rails of Nazi stock Our youth in train loads to the blocks Hauled as hostage to a sin H-block H-bombs on our kin.

Then, Tit for tat Shit for shat Nelson for the Belsens And on, like that

And on

And on.

From glory world of words To slum, What will this dearth of earth become? Genocidal crown To you, we lay our gauntlet down And vow our souls to God Upon our necks we'll not be trod. Frozen mountain high in airs, Titan queen of frost, beware. Your train of dappled green declines Your claim of regal line. Blind of glint of rising sons One by one another comes Thawed from ice upon your crest As endless trickle does the rest. From ebb of glacier's desolation Springs, anew, creation. Water on the water shed Flows undamned toward river beds Where quakes have changed the land. That's my trade

With spade in hand, To irritate your earth And irrigate it's worth.

But, Martin, Martin,

Caring cousin. Was he, anointed, He, the chosen, Whose eyes have pierced Olympus' clouds Rising mountain of our shrouds.

While others balked At augurs' rattle

He fulfilled and led our battle. Banner held of rightful claim, I quote, "One man, one vote."

As a people we diminish Aspirations stalled, unfinished.

As frail reminder, I retain One letter from my name.

>> Crack << Look closely in your gloom. Infinity? Or mirrored room? Multitudes of smiles endearing If were of voice would deafen hearing. Unchanging iterating graces, Are there souls to match the faces? Ceaseless laud and gibe replete, Spare of equal body heat In bantam forms which draw away In amaranthine sway? Just one crack will clew the lie. Fog the glass Then live! Or die!

>> Crown <<

Victim of Dictums of The House of ‘Lords'

Name of Claim of Station of God, Diadem of Ghastly men of Blasphemy. Twists of Gist of Hedge s, spiking your countenance, Flood of Blood of Fleece of idyl man, Waiving, Wavering, Women, children - buckled - bowing down Under the wait. Crawling , as they cross, Each descendant, ever untoward peace, Hidden in abasement, Heedless loss of Needless cost as You, who, never blessed of Moses' horns, Must weary of this crown of thorns.

>> Cutting Edge << Spirit lost

To spirits, drubbed Of blighted sense, Guile counted time in empty tasks Then emptied flasks, At first by feet, Then yards and miles. Expect no seasoned reasoned goals Of sulking men of sullied souls. Strained of painful offing's Undisproved, though mindful art contrived, Sot negated nexts then evers. Somehow, potentiality survived. Echoes roiled that mortal whole Bereft its absent soul. Rage, it was, that reason found, Nostrum quell of poisoned sounds. Janus blinded looking back Fixed on forward to attack. Burnished letters of their law Sole of letters, little more? Writs behind. Closed doors. There is no ease For love which breathed And breathing yielded As swords in ramp of justice wielded.

Such lonely men to hold a line Away from hearth along some weir Fall to vicious killing times Which starve hope and feed despair. Mute, unmoved, and coldly distant, She faced about, as I endeavored To engage a loving instant Eluding me forever. Embraced, her glance avoids my gaze. Her ear evades my hungered lips. She coldly lets my dead hands graze The slopes that grace her fertile hips. This meadow of my darling rises Soft ingrained of nature's prizes Up her supple rolling hills From which her loving suckling fills. On the top, in no man's land, Along the lines from trench to trench We chains of dismal wretches stand With arms around this phantom wench. As terror dies, so undiscerning Exhausted men Exhume their buried yearnings. Thus embracing Spirits, gracing Vacant circled arms enhance The lonely soldier's empty dance.

Landing again, Again, again.

Freckled kids gaze.

Odd thrift - rugged law. Sluts craze. Cogs, husbands fluster. Sisters snub them, scowling.

Fellow outlaws, they die happy.

>> Distemper of Serene Presentiment <<

In seasons change I felt his hand on me So many traces echoed of his word What feelings. Strange. A steal of sacrament. So many races lost upon the sword. A flower strives to pull itself erect As morning yawns and spreads into the glare By nature's gift a lull of sweet restraint So gently lifted we descend from here. Is craving weight Of passion merely? From where, of what - is rain? To savor thus Of cumulus in scattered play, we race In deeply hungered search through soulless void. Unknowing, gulled, we bite to down the bait. White clouds which shape in sunshine Press their forms into our minds. Therein hangs a gentle fog on portents in our lives. In reason's change I savored my ignominy, So many faces beckoned our accord. What dealings hang on seals of discontent, So many baseless trappings of before? Our feelings weaken of our intellect When fawning palls foreboding in despair Of riches left unculled despite complaint. So many hints that we depend on fear.

Clouds impress us. Clouds distress us.

But clouds Are clouds Of we who breathe them life, As other lives address us.

Investment. Vapor frosts in sudden cold. I chill to savor earth enveloped white. Redeem your grace and let your spirit sail, So I to acquiesce again in pride.

>> The Drum << The Drum Bah bum The drum. Bah bum They come.

Bah bum The drum. Bah bum They come. The bastards beat their drums. Bum Bum The bastards beat their drums. Bum Bum The bastards stomping

On through Derry Burning the land They're in no hurry. Killing and raping And stealing unworried. Children who stand And cry are buried.

Bah bum Bum bum Bah bum Bum bum The drum.

>> Egg <<

I, conceptus, Bond, embodiment, Paragons' vested embryo,

Hymn, the one song ever sung, Rapt, of incubation's rotting flesh, In which my sole unfolding wrests. Ever mounting, more of doubt Unsure of shelters free of sin, Dare I rise, to let me out And breach this shell To let it in?

>> Empty Dance << If this muck should ever clear And morrow's scholars' civil quest Unearth these forms who wallow here, What catch would time invest? Gone men, millions, cast in stone Along this soulless killing lode, Perverted forms of hoary bone With arms in common circled pose. Five hundred miles of seeping land Barren of an inch to rest Where wire barbs carve brow and hand As bullets flail the chest. Entrenched illusions fill with rain, While last deceptions drown in gluts Of flesh gone rotten peeled with pain, A mud of human blood and guts. Rifles fall, As vapors rise From entrails, twisting forms disguised As far away and overdue Pleasures, in this squalid stew Of men in masks, of mustard gas, And flies that shroud dead eyes from view. How I survived... No, That's not true.

Lonely, Lonely men away from her, Little else within them stirs. Away, away, Away from home, She is all they' ve ever known. She was all I ever knew.

Such lonely men to hold a line Away from hearth along some weir Fall to vicious killing times Which starve hope and feed despair. Mute, unmoved, and coldly distant, She faced about, as I endeavored To engage a loving instant Eluding me forever. Embraced, her glance avoids my gaze. Her ear evades my hungered lips. She coldly lets my dead hands graze The slopes that grace her fertile hips. This meadow of my darling rises Soft ingrained of nature's prizes Up her supple rolling hills From which her loving suckling fills. On the top, in no man's land, Along the lines from trench to trench We chains of dismal wretches stand With arms around this phantom wench. As terror dies, so undiscerning Exhausted men Exhume their buried yearnings. Thus embracing Spirits, gracing Vacant circled arms enhance The lonely soldier's empty dance.

>> Excalibur << Lonely road Through seas of corn

Carry travelers quickly gone Stretch to meet a failing sun Pass away the way you've come. Tell me, do you ever care Of fates of drifters that you fare? Towering steel Astride the fields Charge your voltage lines ahead From whence they came To hence they spread Outstretched limbs upholding Energy unfolding. Power here, To power there, Do you really care?

Sitting here beneath these skies I watch each bloom that lifts then dies.

Seeds from hand To earth as thrown

In careful gesture, harvest grown. Are expectations held so dear?

Rival crops

Of rage and wrath Thrive beside the many paths Of wayward pilgrims come and gone, Their hymns and hopes withdrawn,

As if insects shooed away Quick to their decay.

Do you think they ever plied Their fire to the paling sky?

Who were they Or, Who am I?

Apathetic, Undirected, Crossing pastures, unaffected, Do I dim and fade to gray? Which wretched trail bids me away? But thrust my sword into this rock Inscribing prayers that fiends would mock Who pulls this blade may yet be king Of things that I could never dream.

>> Faded Memories << Memories. Fantasy Of me as dear to you Mulled too long. At last, Fading fast. Dream Was the means By which I could attain shadows. Failing substance cast,

Simply conjured, Simply passed, Past unclaimed.

Your face, A glance, Dread and dream Embraced in dance.

A flat or sharp of love returned, Prefers to symphonies of hope Unearned. Songs of passion singed these lips Until illusion's joy was stripped Away with youth. In truth, Lost in wishes, not to be, Dreams by day are not for free. As logs Ablaze Are we consumed with change? We can blight, Or We can warm the night. In that glow, we glean From fields we've never sewn

Yields of pleasure's fire thrown In play as vapors drift astray. And When, spent, our shadows call Watch them lift For who we are becomes the gift.

>> Famine Ships <<

Paye the devil And paye well

As would your skin, Stretched, seal this rack

Or we'll be hookered into hell For there's no going back.

>> Fertile Garden <<

Island garden Ever fallow Timeless harvests All upended Ever seasoned Fruitful soil Fertile sallow handed Tended

When that suckled blossom comes Watch out, the sky Watch out, the sun.

>> Fifth Bell << One More Chime

When the fated fifth bell rings Will we all be joined in singing Or

In battle

At the chime

As been our penchant every time?

But, don't despair the belfry's scope If

our hands enjoy the rope.

>> Fisherman << Along the sea Of disembodied souls Reaching waves of inquiry Stretch outward Cresting unanswered To break in a tumultuous Thin spreading let down,

Sighing withdrawn as dissipating foam Rejected froma shore of catechism. Dangerous undercurrents Surge of dwelling forbidden doubt, Insignificantly In this tide of the Creator Whose wisdom, Invisible, Is everything. Just what are we? Witnesses for the show? Why so vast a vanity For an audience so small? Whose watch is it? Questions. Casting. Failing.

Casting flailing. Casting equally Lines and tears Into an unremitting surf To churning crashing silence. Another empty hook Careens home to the spool. What bait have I To toss Or muscle To reel back my loss?

Twisted ending. Empty handed At every pull, Pest! Existence tugging at the sleeve. Reality wanting its turn.

Go away!

I am fishing!

And

My son

is in there.

>> Flag <<

Deadly Pirates in the slip. Don't despair the ship.

Defeat is not a hoisted flag Nor exclusion by our enemies Defeat sets in when spirits sag With flagging of our memories. The foe who sails upon our sea Neglects, at cost, our rising tide Our past undrained alive in me, Swelling as we bide.

Toss

Your words into the streets and catch reflective puddles turned To flooded ways where ships entreat to hoist our flag's return.

>> Flesh to the Raven << Is all wisdom pain? From hurt and nothing else obtained? Are blameless failings ever fast? Deficient sheds or dice to cast? From sinners' sins to penitence, Why not mere trips of innocence, Faulted outset Startled dart, Why not try again In runner's art? Past persuasions falter, As late grasp cleaves the grip of sin. If passions ever fire, Forever ever mires. Toil, flailing, fails us seizing. Chaos reasoned leaves us bleeding. As throes of foes of time offend When whenever ceases Ceasing never ends.

Time trips ever from the East, Barren compass south to north In ruthless glut to quiet peace,

Uprooting stars which shepherd course. Westerly whistling ceaselessly groans Heedlessly, needlessly vested in tone. Unseemly rivals willfully tilt To the pall of piping in thistle and kilt.

Lost Virelai Gigue And rigaudon

Dances of ancients Affirm what is gone. In monotonous taunt Of metered collusion Lull and lullaby

Conclude in delusion. From the nub of least To the breadth of most, Brawn to bone Perpetually drawn To and through the maw of Kronos. Which eyes, dispatched, now guard the moon? That dragging fissure is never through Craving on and on and on as you Sing into the vacuum. Into that spread We lapse in chant,

Ascending when we can In requiem when we cant. From children's tongues In comforting measure Artful deception Enticingly pleasures From elder rounds through Amber sauce Heartening words as sound as froth. Inarticulate of particulate,

Mugs held up, Don't hold up.

All, children at the bags of Fat. Blown, as foam, away like that.

As repetitious notion mires Vision's wistful scission tires.